


In John's Room

by thelookyouredoingthelookagain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Bit Dark Really, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Bullying, Control Issues, Drug Use, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Handcuffs, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Miscommunication, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-09 00:35:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1962243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelookyouredoingthelookagain/pseuds/thelookyouredoingthelookagain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The rugby boys play a prank on Sherlock as well as John, leading to something unexpected. However, a terrible misunderstanding gets out of their control and might just ruin everything before it gets a chance to properly start.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In John's Room, Unexpectedly

**Author's Note:**

> All works here were produced by two friends in the fandom. One writes as SH and one as John, and we edit together. Our characters are based on the BBC's _Sherlock_ , though we don't mind playing a little loosely with canon and the occasional AU. We have whims and like to follow them. While we like to torture our boys with constant misunderstandings, we know they belong together and we always see to that.
> 
> All posted works are complete, and we hope there will be something for everyone. Please take a look at our other works. Just a note, though, there's pretty much always going to be smut. Sometimes fluff, sometimes angst, but always smut. We can't help it: that's just the way we are.
> 
> We plan to add new work each weekend, so please subscribe. 
> 
> We also really appreciate the kudos and comments --they mean so much. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Sherlock had had his fair share of bullying but since he'd come to college, it had all seemed more annoying and less threatening. But tonight was different. Jumped by four rugby players, Sherlock had been carried off to one of the dorm rooms where he was now handcuffed to the bed. He was quick and he was smart, but he was not quick or smart or strong enough to overcome these four sportsmen. And at the moment, he was very afraid.

One of them grabbed his phone from his pocket and started typing. The others huddled around him, laughing at what he was writing. Once the text had obviously been sent, they realised they needed to get out of there fast. They dropped the phone in the bin and left, turning out the lights as they did.

Sherlock sat for a moment in the dark, just feeling relieved that they hadn't actually physically harmed him. And then his mind snapped back to the present, and he realised he needed to get free and out of the room before something else happened. He struggled, twisting his arms, when he heard a noise at the door.

John had just put the key in the lock when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn't know why he paused to check it -- he should have just gone inside and checked it when he got himself settled. But he stood there in the hall and read the message. His face flooded with heat and his stomach twisted violently. A hundred thoughts filled his head at once. Who knew about his crush? Who had told Sherlock? Why hadn't Sherlock come to talk to him? Why had he broken into John's room? What did he think was going to happen? What did he think John felt? What did he think John wanted?

His lungs were burning, and he realised he wasn't breathing. He took a deep breath and then another one after that. He just had to go into his room and get some answers. That was all. He turned the key and pushed the door open slowly, trying to peek inside. Where would he be sitting? "Hello?" John called out, closing the door behind him. There was the small sitting room which just had a counter with a microwave, a small refrigerator and his deck, and then there was the bedroom. "Hello?" he called more loudly. He flicked on the light and saw no one. He moved towards the bedroom. "Look, um . . . I don't know what --" He froze when he finally saw Sherlock. And the handcuffs.

"What are you doing?" John asked.  He felt embarrassed at first, but then confused. Trying to get John's attention was one thing, but why would Sherlock do this? And then suddenly John understood what was happening.

"Who did this to you?" John asked, already knowing the answer. He would kill every single one of his teammates. He glanced around, wondering if they had set any other traps for him.

Sherlock hadn't recognised the voice at first, but he knew John's face when he saw it. They were in a literature class together. He had understood that John was actually on the rugby team, so he had no idea why his teammates would have brought Sherlock here, he had no idea what purpose they thought it would serve besides embarrassing both John and Sherlock, which it clearly had.

"Idiots did this to me," Sherlock mumbled. "Could you free my hands, please?"

"Yeah, they are idiots," John nodded. He wondered what they had told Sherlock, wondered what exactly they knew about his feelings about him. He thought he'd hid it well enough, but maybe not. He went to the desk and found a paperclip, coming over to the bed to pick the lock on the cuffs. "Did they take your phone?"

Sherlock moved his legs away from John as he reached behind Sherlock to work open the lock. If his hands hadn't been hooked behind his back, Sherlock could probably could have done it faster than John was doing it. Sherlock wasn't sure exactly what was going on, but he had a feeling that John wasn't the one to blame, so he said nothing about how long it was taking him. "My phone's in your bin," Sherlock said. "They used it, I presume, to text you. It wasn't me."

John's stomach dropped a bit with disappointment before he caught himself. Of course, it'd been them -- why on earth would Sherlock be texting him? "Yeah," he nodded. "I figured when I saw you tied up." The cuffs clicked softly and John pulled them away. "You're free," he smiled. "I'm sorry about them."

Sherlock sat up and then stood up awkwardly. He got his phone and slipped it into his pocket. "I'm sorry, too," he said, heading for the door. Then he turned back and said, "Why me? Why you?"

John looked over at him and shrugged. "They're idiots. Who knows how they think," he said. He would be finding out though. Greg was friendly with him and he doubted Greg had been involved, but he had to know something.

Sherlock looked at John. He got the impression John might know the answer to at least one of his questions, but he wasn't going to say anything to prolong this already stupidly awkward situation. "Well," Sherlock said, pulling his coat collar up, "this has been a thoroughly unenjoyable experience. Nice room, though," he added as he moved towards the door.

"I'm sorry, again," he said stupidly, knowing it was partly his fault. All his fault. He wondered who found out about his crush and how they found out, and he felt a bit sick as he wondered what they would do now. What would they think when they saw Sherlock again? When they saw John again? Would they believe nothing happened? Would they believe something happened? He didn't know which one would be worse. Would they tease him? Tell Sherlock? Tell everyone? He sat down on the bed, his knees feeling a bit weak. He didn't feel good at all.

Once Sherlock was out of the building, he pulled out his phone, opened up sent mail and read:

_I heard youve been dreaming about me. Come to your room & let me make ur dreams come true. Sherlock_

Sherlock frowned. Obviously anyone who knew him would identify right away that he hadn't sent the message -- those kinds of writing errors were not ones he made. He closed the phone and put in back in his pocket, wondering what it meant. They could have written anything -- why that? He pulled out his phone and opened the text again. He saved the number, typing 'John' but then realised he didn't even know John's last name. Odd: he had just been handcuffed to his bed but didn't even know his last name. He imagined Mycroft would find that funny somehow. He put the phone back in his coat pocket.

When he got back to his room, he turned on the kettle to make a cup of tea and took his phone out again.

_In case you were wondering, I made it home safely. SH_

He hit Send and then stared at his phone, wondering why he had just sent that, until he heard the kettle boil.

John flopped down on his bed and pulled out his phone to text Greg, but he saw he had a text already. It was from the same number as before. He opened it and flushed when he read it. Maybe they had told him something after all. He ignored that message and sent one to Greg quickly.

_Why the hell was Sherlock handcuffed to my bed? -JW_

_Fuck, they actually did that? He wasn't naked, was he? -GL_

_Jesus, Greg! Why was it done at all? -JW_

_You're a bit obvious, mate. No one cares. They were just teasing. -GL_

_Yeah -- it was hilarious. I don't even know what you're talking about. -JW_

_Sherlock's the most observant guy at the college. If Anderson saw it, you think Sherlock hasn't? -GL_

_Seen what? -JW  
_

_You don't have to tell me, John. But you know they like messing with him -- they just saw a chance to get you both. Calm down, yeah? That's probably it now. -GL_

_Yeah, okay. -JW_

He dropped his hand onto the mattress and sighed loudly. He hoped that was going to be the end. He cringed as he imagined Molly talking to him and how cold he was. Rumour was that Sherlock didn't do relationships -- and if he did, it certainly wouldn't be with the captain of the team that harasses him all the time.

Sherlock sat at his desk, drinking his tea and thinking about what had occurred. He didn't really know much about this guy -- he had seen John in class looking strangely at him, but quite frankly, a lot of people looked at Sherlock strangely. John had made a few comments in class which had surprised Sherlock with their thoughtfulness -- he had to confess that he generally just assumed that a rugby player was not the brightest of students. It was probably not fair to think that; then again this evening's events provided ample evidence for the assumption.

But clearly what happened to Sherlock was also meant to embarrass John as well as himself. Why would his teammates want to do that? Was it some weird kind of ritual? Did they just feel like they could kill two birds with one stone -- bully Sherlock and haze their teammate in one go?  
  
Sherlock opened his phone again. John hadn't texted back. Maybe he was reading too much into this whole thing, but he couldn't help it -- he wanted to figure it out, he wanted to understand what had happened. He re-read the message the rugby players had sent to John.

_I heard youve been dreaming about me. Come to your room & let me make ur dreams come true. Sherlock_

Had John been dreaming of Sherlock? If so, how would other people know? What kind of dreams -- was mocking him now the subject of rugby players' dreams as well as their evening's entertainment?

He wished that he had more information about what John had been doing before the text and immediately after it. Had he -- even for a second -- thought the text was really from Sherlock? Had he rushed back and, if so, why? To continue the humiliation or for some other reason?

He thought about John's face when he had come into the room and saw Sherlock. There was _something_ there. What? He wasn't sure . . . yet.

John got up to do some homework, hoping to distract his mind. As he got his books out, he wondered why Sherlock texted him again, all on his own. Maybe he wanted to talk with John . . . no. Maybe? John looked at his phone. He picked it up, put it down, paced his room, and picked it up again. The worst that could happen is Sherlock tell him to leave him alone.

_That's good. I'll make sure they leave you alone. -JW_

He stared at the message. Would it be weird now that he waited so long? Anything could have happened -- he could have gone to the bathroom, got a call, told off his friends -- it wouldn't be weird. He hit Send and quickly set the phone down.

Sherlock picked up his phone and read the text. JW. He searched his literature class's webpage and John Watson was the only JW student listed. So it was John Watson who was intriguing him so at the moment. He picked up his phone.

_And shall I do the same for you, John Watson? SH_

John snatched the phone quickly and was glad no one had been there to see.

_Me? I wasn't the one handcuffed to the bed by them. -JW_

Sherlock smiled. The game was on.

_True. But I'm not the one who's been dreaming. SH_

John flushed brightly and looked around again.

_I haven't been dreaming! They're just being idiots again. -JW_

Sherlock smiled again. Oh John Watson, he thought, you have no idea with whom you are dealing.

_Obviously I believe you. The use of the exclamation point is clear evidence that you are not lying. Perhaps you will dream about me tonight, though, and then you most definitely will be at risk. SH  
_

John stared at the message and then looked back at his own. The exclamation point? What did that mean? Was he teasing? It's not like it was a winking smiley face.

_I will not. Stop teasing me after I helped you. -JW_

_Fair enough. You did. Thank you. I'm just saying they seem to think something about you and me is funny, and I don't want you to do anything to make it worse for yourself. SH_

So they hadn't told him, unless he was playing dumb, John thought.

_They were being idiots. It was a random attack. It's fine now. -JW_

_Then we needn't worry. Just in case, though, you have my number if you need me. Sweet dreams. SH_

John was about to ask why he would possibly need Sherlock, but he just ignored it and got back to his work. Well, he tried to anyways. What did Sherlock know? Why was he acting so weird? Maybe Greg was right and Sherlock had merely observed it. He was going to have to start being more careful. Not that he was ashamed, but if Sherlock didn't feel the same the embarrassment would be too much. He shook his head and forced himself back to work. An hour later, having done less than he normally would have, he went to bed. "I'm not going to dream about him," he said out loud.

Sherlock went to bed grinning -- what had started out as a rather fearful attack had ended up quite an intriguing mystery. He would deduce why they had chosen John's room. He would figure it all out. He wished now he had taken a few more moments to look around John's place, to look for clues. He went to sleep replaying every interaction he thought he'd had with John in class, analysing even the smallest detail he could remember.


	2. Sherlock's Interest Is Piqued

John, in his constant thinking about not dreaming of Sherlock, ended of dreaming about Sherlock. Of course. They were locked in his room and Sherlock was asking too many questions. John was trying to kick him out, but Sherlock just kept looking around. John was nervous, but he couldn't remember why. And then Sherlock opened a cupboard door and John saw a whole memorial dedicated to Sherlock. He tried to explain, but the words wouldn't come. Sherlock simply stared at him smugly. John woke up with a gasp, flopping back down. The sun was coming up and he went for a shower, trying to push the dream away. 

Sherlock usually slept in fits -- most nights for him were essentially a series of two hour naps with an hour of restlessness in between. This night was no different. However, when he woke for the last time, he had an erection and then realised he had been dreaming of John. In the dream he was in John's room, but it was John who was handcuffed to the bed. When Sherlock leaned over to unlock John's hands, he hesitated and then leaned in, kissing John hard. And then he woke up. He felt flustered and a little embarrassed that his trick, designed to make John dream of him, had backfired on himself.

He rolled over and looked at the clock -- it was eight and his first class didn't start until noon. He reached for his phone.

_Fine. You win. I dreamt of you. Happy? Enjoy feeling smug. SH_

He sent it without further thought, rolling over to think more about his dream.

John was walking into his first class when he saw the message and he stopped so suddenly that a couple people ran into him.  He shoved the phone into his pocket and hurried to his seat. What was he supposed to say to that? For a moment he considered admitting that he had as well, but he didn't. He had to play it cool and find out what Sherlock knew.

_Oh? And what did you see? -JW_

_You. Your room. What I saw last night, I saw in the dream. The mind is very suggestible, John Watson. SH_

_Oh. I suppose that's true. -JW_

_Shall we keep this dream between us or will you be telling your friends? Let me know. I'll keep my lock pick with me in case they plan a second date for us. SH_

_I never told my friends anything! -JW_

He huffed out a breath and then realised that sounded like he was admitting it.

_There was nothing to tell them. I told you, they do nonsense all the time and I was just the target. You could have ended up anywhere. They could have texted anyone. -JW_

_No exclamation points and yet . . . we both know that's a lie, don't we? SH_

John shifted uncomfortably in his seat, feeling like he was being watched. He must know something.

_Look, whatever they told you, ignore them. They are idiots. -JW_

But now he realised if they hadn't told Sherlock anything then this would seem like there was in fact something to tell. Wouldn't it? He dropped his head on the desk rather hard, making a few people around him look over.

 _John Watson,_ you _are telling me the things I want to know. SH_

John's mouth fell open.

_I haven't told you anything! What do you want to know? Leave me alone. -JW_

Panicked, he shoved his phone into his pocket. God, if Sherlock figured out how he felt he was going to be mortified. Sherlock would have to let him down and it would not be easy. Why hadn't he just kept his stupid eyes down? You have to see him in Lit at noon, John thought and then shook his head. He'd skip it, get notes from Greg. How the hell was he going to go in there?

_Fine. I will leave you alone. If that's what you want. SH_

Sherlock stared at the screen after hitting Send. He didn't want this to end yet.

_See you in class. SH_

John couldn't help himself. He pulled out his phone and read the two messages. He didn't reply back because he said he wouldn't and he didn't want Sherlock to think he'd gotten to him. When this class was finally over he grabbed something quick to eat and headed for his Lit class, sitting all the way in the back by Greg.

"Feeling better?" He asked John.

"No. He's hounding me about why you guys put him in my room with that message," John snapped.

Greg chuckled and John rolled his eyes. "It wouldn't be a bad thing, John. No one cares about that sort of thing. Well, most people don't."

"I don't -- it doesn't matter because he doesn't do --" he cut off suddenly as Sherlock walked in. "Shut up," he hissed at Greg, who only chuckled softly before him.

Sherlock kept his head down as he walked into the classroom and took a seat in the front row. He did not turn his head once during the entire lecture and when it finished, he was the first one out the door. He walked back to his room and lay down on his bed. He looked at the clock. He would wait one hour.

"He didn't even look over," Greg said as they walked out.

John shrugged. "I told you, he doesn't do relationships. If he finds out --"

"Oh, there's something to find out now?" Greg grinned.

John punched his arm. "If he finds out he's going to rip me apart. Remember when that girl asked him to go out, and he told her that he couldn't because he thought the father of her baby wouldn't like that? She didn't even know yet!"

"Sorry, are you pregnant then?" Greg laughed. John sighed heavily and threw him a dirty look. "I think you're overreacting, mate. He's texting you. That's more interest than he's shown anyone else. I don't think he's going to rip you apart," Greg said and then hit his arm before heading to his next class.

John watched him go and headed for his dorm again. His next class wasn't until five that night so he had a nice three hour break to sort out his thoughts. 

After one hour precisely, Sherlock leaned over and picked up his phone.

_I left you alone. As requested. SH  
_

John took his phone from his pocket and stared.

_You mean in class? -JW_

He'd sorted absolutely nothing so far. He kept going back and forth, making pros and cons about the whole thing. He did know he was not going to say a single thing unless he had proof that Sherlock wouldn't kill him. He didn't even have to feel the same way. John just didn't want it to turn into a spectacle.

_Yes. You told me to leave you alone. So I am leaving you alone. I just wanted to call your attention to that. SH_

John flushed lightly and his stomach twisted with guilt.

_I did notice. But I just meant . . .with all the questioning. -JW_

_You really should be more specific when ordering me about. SH  
_

_I wasn't ordering you. Calm down. -JW  
_

_I am perfectly calm, John Watson. Are you? Check your pulse. Mine is steady. SH_

_Mine is steady too. Why do you keep using my full name like that? -JW_

_Because I like to. Are you going to forbid that as well? No questions, no using your full name. I suppose we don't have much left to talk about, do we? SH_

_You'll never know my full name. And you can ask questions. Just not about my stupid teammates and their stupid ideas. -JW_

If they actually ended up being friends, this might turn out alright. John could just hide his romantic feelings, and it was all be something they could joke about later.

_I am satisfied with John Watson. Are you in your room? SH_

_Yeah. My last class is at five. -JW_

_Are you alone or with one of the people I'm not permitted to ask questions about? SH_

John rolled his eyes.

_I'm alone. I don't have a roommate and I don't let them hang out here. They're animals. -JW_

_I, too, am alone in my room. In case you were going to ask. Which I appreciate you probably weren't. SH_

_I wasn't. I'm a bit surprised that you asked me. Why did you ask? -JW_

_I am naturally inquisitive. Have you no questions for me, then? SH_

_That seems like a weird thing to be curious about. Unless those arses have your phone again and if this is Anderson I'll take you off the team when the scouts come. If it really is Sherlock, I guess I want to know why you're talking to me. -JW_

_You have two crumpled pieces of yellow paper, an unfinished Guardian cryptic crossword and a black biro in your bin. Do you think Anderson would have noticed those details? I am curious about most things, John Watson. Why aren't you? SH_

_Anderson wouldn't notice those things if I slapped his face with them. I'm curious about a lot of things. The first one is why you're talking to me. -JW_

_Because you are interesting to me. I am interested in you. SH_

Interested? John knew he didn't mean it like that, but it still made his stomach flip lightly.

_There's nothing interesting about me. Had you spent five minutes in my room properly you would have seen how dull I am. -JW_

_I spent five minutes in your room handcuffed to your bed. That was quite interesting. Would you say that I am a rather clever person, John Watson? SH_

_Yeah, but you were obviously distracted. And yes I would. I've seen you in class, heard the things you say to professors. The way you read people, you must be clever. -JW_

_I_ am _clever, John. So when a clever person tells you you're interesting, believe that you are interesting. Because you are. There is something there, and I suppose I'd like to know what. SH  
_

John flushed, not having expected the conversation to take that turn. He hesitated writing back, trying to pick his words all they were just right.

_There's nothing there. Honest. -JW  
_

_Perhaps I am mistaken. I'll go back to leaving you alone then. Goodbye, John Watson. SH_

_Why don't you tell me? I mean, if you see something? -JW_

_I_ am _telling you, John. The whole world is telling you. You're not listening. SH_

_Telling me what? That I'm interesting? I don't understand. -JW_

_Do me one final favour. Think on these three things: 1. four people you know handcuffed me to your bed, 2. your friend in lit class gave you advice today, and 3. I just told you I am interested in you. Have a good think now._ That _is what the world is telling you, John Watson. What you and the world are telling me is what I shall spend the rest of the afternoon deducing. SH  
_

John stared at the message, swallowing hard. For a second he suspected Greg secretly telling Sherlock everything they had talked about. But he knew that wasn't the case. 'The most observant kid in college' Greg had called him. Sherlock must have figured it out. He must know how John felt, know why they picked his room out of all the other players.

John pushed his phone away from himself, unable to answer. He was scared. He didn't know what to say back. More excuses? Denial? The truth? It all terrified him, so he did nothing. _What is so terrifying, idiot?_ John sighed. The fact that Sherlock might feel the same way is what scared him most. That they would talk and . . . and maybe do other things, and he flushed and pressed his hands into his eyes. That shouldn't be scary, but he couldn't help it.

Sherlock set his phone down. He listened to what the world was telling him:

          1. Four of John's friends handcuffed him to John's bed: a message or just bullying?

          2. Sherlock had known John's name, not his last name, true, but his first name: how? why?

          3. Sherlock texted John once he returned home: why?

Sherlock looked back in his texts to read the conversation from last night. He imagined Mycroft's take on it.

          4. Sherlock flirted with John via text.

          5. Sherlock dreamt about kissing John.

          6. Sherlock woke up with an erection.

          7. Sherlock immediately texted John.

          8. Sherlock kept texting John even when John told him to leave him alone.

          9. Sherlock just told John he was interested in him.

         10. John was not being truthful or at least not telling the whole truth.

  
In two minutes, Sherlock listened to everything that needed to be heard. He rolled over on his bed and waited.

The time ticked away in silence. No more messages were coming in. John had to leave for class. He pocketed his phone and went to class. He couldn't concentrate on anything -- he might as well have stayed in bed. He still didn't know what to say to Sherlock. Thinking about it made his stomach twist with nerves. He skipped dinner, holed up in his room again, and just reread their messages.

They had a certain tone. Had Sherlock been doing that on purpose? Has he been . . . flirting? John found that very hard to believe. He wished they had been friends before all of this -- wished he could say with certainty what sorts of things Sherlock would and would not do. He knew the easy fix: ask Sherlock to hang out. But that made his stomach hurt too so he just curled up more and didn't do anything.

 _You're being an idiot. A cowardly idiot._ This voice sounded a lot like Greg, and John hated it.

 _I just need to know what his intentions are first_. This one was his own, timid and nervous.

After a short nap, Sherlock got up and looked over his work for tomorrow. He turned on his radio. He wondered about John, but he didn't pick up his phone.

When John got into bed, still a bit early, he checked his phone again. No messages. But why would there be? It was his turn to write back. Sherlock didn't do relationships, let alone chase after someone. Of course this was speculation but he still thought it. He opened the messages.

_Did you have a good rest of the day?_

Stupid. He erased it and stared at the cursor as it blinked.

_I think the world is telling me that it works very mysteriously. -JW_

Still stupid, but better than nothing.

At the sound of his phone, Sherlock immediately grabbed it. He smiled when he saw John's text.

_I think you are wrong about that. But perhaps right about other things you may be thinking. SH_

Sherlock opened his contacts and changed John to JW.

_I'm not thinking anything else. Only that strange things are happening, and because they are all so strange, they appear to be related. -JW_

Did that make sense? He sent it anyways.

_That's the world talking to you, John. I think you know what it is saying. I do. SH_

John sat up now and pulled his knees close. He bit his lip nervously.

_What are you hearing, Sherlock? -JW_

_I am interested in you, John Watson. And you? SH_

Interested. John read the word over and over again. He wasn't curious about John, he was interested in him. Which could only mean one thing. He hoped.

_I am interested in you, too. -JW_

He wanted to add more -- about how he'd felt it for a while, how he hasn't actually told anyone, how he never thought Sherlock would reciprocate. He wanted to ask how Sherlock knew, if anyone told him, how long he'd felt this way. But that would all come later. It was simple now.

_Good. I'd like to see you. Would you be willing to come to my room at some point? SH_

_Sure. When? -JW_

_Whenever you would like. On a completely unrelated note, what did you do with the handcuffs? SH_

John's brows furrowed, and he pulled open his desk drawer, looking at the cuffs.

_I have them here. Why? -JW_

_I also only have two classes tomorrow morning. -JW_

_I was just teasing you about the handcuffs. When would you like to come over? SH_

Teasing? John flushed and hoped Sherlock didn't think he was silly for keeping them. He hadn't really thought much about them, just put them away.

 _Tomorrow_ _after my classes? It'll be around two. -JW_

_I'm in the building directly across the quad from yours. Room 221. I shall see you then, John Watson. SH_

_See you. -JW_

John plugged his phone in and set it on the desk, grinning as he got dressed for bed. He was still nervous, of course, but he wasn't scared anymore. This might actually turn out all right, and he couldn't wait to see what would happen tomorrow. 

It had been an interesting last twenty four hours in the life of Sherlock Holmes. He crawled onto his bed to think about what the next twenty four would hold.


	3. In Sherlock's Room, The First Time

John couldn't sleep. He started at the ceiling for a long time, different scenes playing on it like a movie screen -- scenes from innocent dates to scenes that made his cheeks burn in the dark. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to force sleep. It took a long time. His mind was blank and it felt like only five minutes had passed when his alarm was going off.

He showered and went to class in a half daze, trying to take notes. Maybe he could take a nap before going to see Sherlock.

Sherlock was wide awake for his first class, which he found strangely interesting. Rather, he found the people in the classroom strangely interesting. He watched them all, reading the secrets they thought they were hiding. He left class knowing very little more about the subject the professor had lectured on, but feeling smug about what he had learned from his classmates.

He headed back to his room and felt the need to tidy it up. He looked around -- the place wasn't designed for two people, he had made his choices deliberately to avoid that possibility. There was only one chair, there was only one mug. He decided the second part definitely needed to remedied. He walked down to a shop and got a second mug and some biscuits. Then he returned to his room and waited, which caused him a bit of anxiety as he realised that when he had invited John over, he hadn't thought about specifics. What would they do? What would John be expecting them to do? He wasn't sure about either of these things.

As the time got closer John knew that even though he was tired, there was no way he was going to sleep. He went to his room just long enough to dump his things and flatten his hair a bit before heading over to Sherlock's dorm. He looked around nervously as he walked, just for something to do. When he got there he bit his lip and knocked quickly. He stepped back from the door and waited.

Sherlock called for John to come in. He thought that'd be more normal than going to answer the door, which seemed too formal somehow. He was sitting cross legged on his bed so that John could take the chair. He had a book sitting next to him, which he hadn't been reading but which he'd be happy for John to assume he was.

"My room is smaller than yours" was the only thing he could think to say as he watched John walk in.

John pushed the door open and shut it behind him, standing awkwardly for a moment. "It's nice," he said as he finally moved to the chair and sat down. He looked around once more before looking at Sherlock. "Um . . . what are you reading?"

Sherlock glanced down at the book. "It's a forensic science thing, crime. In case I plan to commit one, I'd like to be prepared." He smiled, a little awkwardly at first and then genuinely. "I'll make tea. I have biscuits." He stood up and turned on the kettle. "Did you not sleep well? You look tired, I mean, you seem tired. Are you tired?" Sherlock asked.

"I am, a bit, yeah. I mean, I didn't really sleep. Don't poison my tea, okay?" John smiled, looking around the room again. It was plain but comfortable.

"I won't, I've not got to that chapter yet," Sherlock said, as he handed the mug to John. He put the biscuits on the desk. "How were your morning classes?"

"Fine," John said, sipping his tea. He couldn't really remember anything specific, having been so checked out. "Did you have class today?"

"Early this morning. I don't have many courses left, but I don't really know what I'll do next so I'm staying here until I decide, I suppose," Sherlock said. "How much longer will you be here? Where will go next?"

"I'm done with classes so I'll just be going back to my dorm, probably do homework or something," he shrugged. He didn't know what to say about how long he'd stay so he didn't mention a time.

"No, I mean at uni -- what year are you in?" Sherlock clarified. "I don't need to know how long you're staying in my room. You're free to go at anytime. You're not handcuffed, you know."

"Shut up," he said, smiling wider. "I'm in my last year and then I'm going into the army, medical training. You?"

"No, I don't think I will go into the army for medical training," Sherlock said, settling back down on to the bed. "I like the uniforms, though," he said for no reason whatsoever. "Is your family from around here? I'm sorry. I'm asking a lot of questions again."

"That's okay. That's how people become friends, isn't it?" John asked, wondering if that's what Sherlock wanted out of this. John had assumed they were going to talk about what the first text had said, but Sherlock hadn't brought it up yet, much to John's relief. "And I meant what are you doing after here? What are you going for?"

"Yes, questions are key to a lot of things, but you may recall you banned me from them earlier," he smiled softly. "Anyway, I'm studying chemistry but I don't know what I want to do next -- if I want to travel or work or be a grown up or what. I'm sure something will come up. Opportunities often present themselves when you least expect it." He took a sip of tea and thought about having a biscuit, but really only because it would give him something to do with his hands. That's why smoking was good -- it gave one's hands something to do. But smoking in the rooms wasn't allowed and somehow he felt safe in assuming John wasn't a smoker himself.

"I banned you from . . . other questions," John said, sipping at his tea. "Anyways, chemistry sounds exciting. And with your crime book I assume you'll work for the police?"

"I'm not so sure that's a safe assumption. I mean, I wasn't lying -- I really don't know. I'm sure I should have it figured out by now, but I guess I don't," Sherlock said. "I think this may be a key difference between the two of us: you seem pretty ambitious, you've got plans. Those phrases don't really describe me at the moment.

"Well, there's nothing wrong with that," John smiled. "I've known I wanted to be a doctor for a long time. The army is going to help pay for it."

"That's a good plan, John Watson," Sherlock said. "It is. So . . . you really were in my dream last night. Is that why they picked your room -- did you really have a dream about me?" He looked up at John. "I mean, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to, though I think you might be morally if not legally obliged to, but I'll let your conscience decide."

John bit his lip and took a deep breath. "You were not in my dream," he started, playing with the room of his cup. "Before the attack," he finished quietly.

Sherlock smiled but only inside. Now there were two topics for discussion: first why the players chose John's room and now what John had dreamt last night. Sherlock felt a little pleased with himself that his trick to get John to dream of him had worked, even if it meant that he also had dreamt of John. Which wasn't bad, of course. It was actually quite nice.

"We'll start with before then. Why did they take me to your room and write that text? It was all too specific so don't pretend it was random," Sherlock said.

John shrugged, his stomach twisting violently. At least no one else was around. "Greg says I've been a bit obvious," he mumbled.

"A bit obvious about what?" Sherlock said. "And who's Greg?"

"Lestrade -- my friend from Lit," John said.  "And you know . . . staring and stuff." He hoped Sherlock would just figure out so he wouldn't have to say it.

"You've been staring at me then?" Sherlock asked. "Why?"

John nodded. "I -- I like you," he sighed. He forced himself to look up, to meet Sherlock's eyes. "I like you," he said more clearly. It was out now anyways.

"Right then," Sherlock said. "Okay, good, that's good." He swallowed. "And then you dreamt of me last night?"

John nodded, his face heating even more. "You were locked in my room and . . . and you found a memorial dedicated to you," he said quietly.

"Hmm," Sherlock said, smiling. "And is that actually what I would have found had I opened your cupboards last night?"

"No!" John said quickly, and then flushed when he realised Sherlock was joking. "No," he said more easily.

"I dreamt I kissed you," Sherlock said standing and moving to add more water to the kettle before turning it back on. He stood waiting at the counter, about five feet away from John at his desk.

John turned around in the chair to face him. "You did?"

"Indeed I did," Sherlock said, looking at him. "I hope that's not a problem for you. It wasn't a problem for me at all."

"I . . ." he couldn't speak but he was shaking his head. He took a deep breath. "Because of what happened or -- or because you want to?"

"Well, I certainly wanted to in the dream," Sherlock said, pouring water into his cup, "and I suppose I want to now as well." He looked at John. "More tea?"

John realised his mouth was hanging open a bit and he closed it quickly. He shook his head. Sherlock wanted to kiss him? Him?

Sherlock took his tea and sat back down on the bed. "Anyway, you never said -- is your family local?"

John turned back to face him. He shook his head again. "They're . . . a couple hours away."

"And Graham -- you met him here or you knew him before?" Sherlock asked.

John's shock had ebbed away and now his brows furrowed. "Sorry, who? I don't know a Graham."

"Your friend from class who saw you staring at me -- did you go to school with him or just meet him here playing sports?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh, Greg," John corrected. "No, we met here. He plays rugby with me, but he's not like the other guys. He's nice."

"Right. And he doesn't care that you . . . like staring at me?"

John shook his head. "He says no one really does but I don't know." He looked up a bit nervously. "I'm sorry . . . my experience hasn't been very good with it. I mean, my sister came out a couple years ago and it caused some . . . distress."

"So your only experience with 'it' has been someone else's experience?" Sherlock said. "I'm not trying to be snarky, you know what I'm trying to ask."

John nodded. "I just -- I'm nervous about admitting it, I guess. I was confused for a while and, well, the proof is right here."

"Could be you're just confused. Do I resemble your mother maybe?" Sherlock said, trying to lighten the mood. "It might be my hair, I do have good hair. Perhaps if I wore a cap to class, you'd get over it?"

"My mother?" John asked, wrinkling his nose. "No! And I don't think I'm confused anymore. I know I'm not."

"All right then," Sherlock said. "You can keep staring if you want. It doesn't bother me." He smiled. "I kind of like the idea, I suppose."

"I don't do it that much," John muttered. "I don't want to be a creep."

"If you want to now you can, I don't mind," Sherlock said, turning his head as if to give John a good look. "And there was no kissing in the dream, you say?" he asked.

John looked up at him. "I was panicked and trying to throw you out," he smiled lightly. 

"I see. Is that your usual strategy towards people you're interested in?"

"No," John laughed now. "But I was a bit stressed, you know."

"What is your usual strategy then? Get your friends to handcuff the person to your bed?"

"No!" John huffed. "I told you, that was just them being idiots. I -- I guess I would take you on a date or something," he finished, shrugging. 

"Would you have? And were you planning on asking me out on this date? Or were you just thinking it would magically happen?"

John flushed and shook his head. "I wasn't going to do anything because I didn't know how you felt and I was terrified," he admitted. 

"I'm not that scary, am I? Even when I was handcuffed? You had me at your mercy then. You should have made your big move," Sherlock said. "Are you terrified right now?"

"You're not scary, just . . . humiliation and rejection," John said, looking up at him again. "I'm not terrified right now."

"Are you . . . comfortable? Making people comfortable is not really my specialty, I appreciate. But I'd like you to feel comfortable around me, I guess."

"A bit nervous still, but that's normal with new people," John said, smiling over at him. "I'm fine."

"Would you prefer to sit on the bed? I mean, no funny business . . . do you want to come sit over here?" Sherlock asked quietly.

John chewed the inside of his lip for a moment before nodding. "Yeah, all right," he said finally. He put his empty mug on Sherlock's desk and climbed up onto his bed, scooting so he could lean his back against the wall. 

"Want to watch a film or something?" Sherlock said, reaching for his laptop. "I've got it hooked up to the telly. What do you feel like watching?" He didn't want to make a big thing of them both being on the bed. He'd interrogated John enough for now.

"Okay," John nodded. He shifted a bit closer so he could see the screen better, and the telly when it was turned on. "I like adventure movies or movies about space, but I'm not picky, really. Whatever you pick will be fine," he smiled.

Sherlock clicked to start _Barbarella_. "It's kind of a space one," he said smiling. He slid down a little on the bed to get more comfortable to watch.

"I've never seen it before," John admitted. "Will you pass me a biscuit, please?"

Sherlock leaned over and gave the pack to John. "It's very . . . sixties," he said. He lay back down and turned on his side. "John," he said, "maybe we should also possibly have some kissing. Since you're here and everything, it seems kind of foolish not to."

John was about to put a biscuit in his mouth when it fell from his hand. He picked it up quickly but he didn't eat it. He didn't want his mouth full with food. "Um . . . yeah," he nodded, now that the surprise wore off. "Yes, it would be ridiculous to let the opportunity pass us by." He put the biscuits aside and scooted up a bit closer to Sherlock.  

Sherlock lifted one hand to the back of John's hand and held it still as he lifted his to press his mouth softly against John's. He pulled his mouth back a bit and then went in for a second one, a little harder, parting his lips as his fingers spread through John's hair.

John held his breath when Sherlock held his head, feeling like he was stuck now even though he knew he wasn't. He smiled softly at the first kiss and was very glad when Sherlock gave him a second one. He pressed back, parting his own lips and bringing his free hand to Sherlock's cheek, his thumb stroking softly. 

Sherlock tipped his head slightly and pressed his tongue softly into John's mouth to find his. He felt urges for more but instead he pulled back, dropped his hand from John's head and rested himself against the pillow. "That was good," he said quietly.

John nodded, focusing on breathing steadily. "Yeah, I liked that. Was it like your dream?" 

"Kind of like that, but not exactly," Sherlock said, not wanting to think too much about the dream because it had led to an erection, which he wasn't sure was the best thing to happen right at the moment.

John lay so that he was resting on his elbow, his head in his hand. "How was it different?" John asked. 

"Well, if you really want to know, you were handcuffed to your bed at the time," Sherlock said, looking up at the ceiling. "I mean, like I was, but it was you instead."

"Oh, like someone was playing a trick on you? And instead of letting me go you just kissed me?" John grinned. His cheeks flushed lightly but he continued looking over at Sherlock. 

"Yeah, kind of like that," Sherlock said. "Does it bother you that I dreamt that?" Sherlock was absentmindedly fiddling with John's shirt sleeve.

"No," John shook his head. "I imagined things like that, when I would stare and forget where I was. Never with handcuffs," he added, smiling softly. 

"Do you want to tell me any of the details?"

"A lot of kissing," John mused. "They are mostly little scenarios where we meet up -- you know, I thought we never would so they are all incredibly cheesy," he admitted. 

"Hmm," Sherlock said, "and now we have met up." He turned to face John again. He looked at him and stroked his cheek. "You're very handsome," he said softly, looking into John's eyes.

John's smile faltered lightly in his embarrassment. "So are you," he said quietly, his eyes moving quickly over Sherlock's face. "Did you ever think about me before what happened?" 

"I thought you were surprisingly clever when you spoke in class," Sherlock said. "I have to be honest, I don't think about things like kissing much . . . usually. I haven't had a dream like that in a very long time. But . . . cleverness is very sexy to me."

"I'm in trouble, then," he teased softly. "I thought about kissing you all the time."

"Really?" Sherlock said, a little surprised. "John, I'm really flattered, but it makes me feel a little depressed that maybe you would have never done anything about it. What if they hadn't brought me to your room? Or I hadn't texted you when I got home? You shouldn't be so timid, you know. Why would anyone reject someone like you?"

"It's happened before," John protested. "And I'm sure we would have met again. I mean, I would have asked if you were okay and maybe it would have gone from there, maybe . . ." He gave Sherlock a guilty look, smiling softly. 

"What's happened before? Someone got handcuffed to your bed?" Sherlock asked.

"No! Me being rejected. It does happen," he laughed. 

"Seems hard to believe really. You must have been picking the wrong people, I guess," Sherlock said. "Do you still feel shy around me?"

John shook his head. "No, I don't," he smiled. He put his hand on Sherlock's neck, stroking his cheek his with thumb. "Do you?"

"I don't," Sherlock said. "I mean, we still barely know each other and I've got to be honest, your friends do not really impress me, but I don't know, there's something about you that makes me feel like I can trust you. And that makes me feel all right."

John smiled. "I'm glad you don't lump me in with them, and that you can trust me," he said. "I don't want to hurt you." He lay down on his side and scoot a bit closer. He kept trying to remind himself that this was the first time they'd hung out and that he needed to calm his feelings down -- having a crush didn't make all of that time real.

"Should we go back to watching the movie?" Sherlock said, still facing John. "Or talk more . . . or kiss again?"

"I suppose we should keep watching the movie, and I'll hold your hand and wish we were kissing, which we'll do after," he smiled. 

"Okay then," Sherlock said, reaching out for John's hand and turning back to the film. It was a little hard to concentrate on the movie -- he couldn't help it, he was mainly thinking about kissing. Sherlock wasn't lying when he didn't think about that stuff much; sex wasn't really that important to him. However, it appeared that might be changing slightly, thanks to John.

John stroked the back of Sherlock's hand, watching the movie distractedly. He'd thought so much about Sherlock before that he felt ready to do anything -- he'd say yes to a marriage proposal if Sherlock asked -- so he was trying to calm his brain down a bit to prevent him from saying something stupid. 

Sherlock looked forward, watching the movie. "These people who have rejected you," Sherlock said, without turning his head. "Were they men or women?"

"Women," John said. Then he glanced over at him. "And one man. But that didn't really count."

"Why doesn't he count?" Sherlock said, curious now.

"Because I only offered to buy him a drink," John shrugged. "He said no and that was all."

"The guys from your team -- do they know you like men or do they just think you are temporarily distracted by my good hair and mysterious persona?"

John shrugged again. "Greg told me that no one cares and that makes it seem like they might know. If they do they haven't said anything. But this is the first time I ever showed an interest -- a real interest."

"Why?" Sherlock said, turning to face him again. "I mean, is it just . . . lust? It's okay if it is. I mean we don't really know each other, do we? So why . . . are you so keen?"

John licked his lips. "I don't know how to explain it. When I first saw you I appreciated how handsome you are -- it was the first thing I noticed. But I kept watching you and I would see you close your eyes and move your head slightly, like you were looking for something. Or I'd hear you calling the teachers names when you were being clever, and deducing all these things about people and it was amazing. You are smart, and funny and I kind of . . . fell for you." 

"Wow, that's an impressive bit of sweet talk," Sherlock said. "It makes my 'you seemed surprisingly clever' sound rather amateurish." Sherlock moved one of his legs a little closer to John's.

John smiled. "I want to find more things for my list, more things to add," he said. 

"There's nothing else interesting about me, John Watson," Sherlock said. "To be honest, I have a feeling that the more you find out about me, the less interested you'll be. That's often the case, I'm afraid."

"No," John shook his head. "I have only been here for about an hour and I know that you have soft lips, your long fingers hold my hand quite nicely, your eyes crinkle around the edges when you smile and it's adorable." 

"I don't smile that much," Sherlock said. "How come you seem to know so much about my face but seem oblivious to the fact that yours is so handsome?"

"Because I like yours so much better," he grinned. 

Sherlock's cheeks flushed. "Well, now you've gone and embarrassed me." He rolled to the other side away from John.

"Oh no!" John sighed, flopping onto his back dramatically. "I'll phone the police," he said seriously. 

"Don't bother, they'll find the case not worth their time, I'm afraid," Sherlock said. "But I'm not going to turn back around until you promise to stop complimenting me. Just be normal, please."

"I am being normal!" John turned on his side again and stared at the back of his head. "Please don't be upset . . ."

"It's too late, I'm terribly upset," Sherlock said. "Now you'll have to figure out a way to try to win me over, I guess."

John grinned at the back of his head. "Okay." He reached out and started to massage Sherlock's shoulders, kneading the muscles softly. 

"I'm still upset, I think," Sherlock said, pushing back a little against John's hands.

"Oh?" John grinned, moving his hands to behind his shoulders, kneading the middle of his back with his fingertips. 

"Mmm, that's helping win me back over, I think," Sherlock said. "Is this a medical technique you're using or a seduction one?"

"It's a please-forgive-me-for-thinking-you're-so-cute technique. The medical one is harder and the seduction one is lower," John chuckled. 

"What do you mean lower?" Sherlock said. "Show me."

John's hands faltered, but he slid them down to the small of Sherlock's back. "I would massage here," he said quietly, sliding to his hips. "And here."

"Yes, I could see how that might work on some people," he said. "What might you do next . . . I mean, if you were trying to seduce someone?"

John pushed him lightly onto his belly and climbed up, straddling his thighs. "I'd sit like this -- claiming it was for better leverage, you see," he murmured, moving up his back now. "But it's just to sneak more contact," he finished, sliding his hands down Sherlock's arms now so that he was forced to lay over him. 

Sherlock turned his head a little on the pillow. "Yes, I could see that being quite successful as a seduction technique. It's a bit more subtle than I might use, but it's pretty good."

"Oh?" John said, rubbing his hands up and down on Sherlock's ribs now. "And what would you use?" he asked quietly. 

"Well, handcuffs would probably be involved," Sherlock said, 'but that might explain why I've not been very successful thus far."

"Handcuffs, huh? I'm starting to think this was a kink of yours before yesterday," John smiled. 

"I'm not sure it was, but the dream . . . was pretty sexy," Sherlock confessed. "More so because it was you, not because of the handcuffs."

"The dream where you kissed me? I was handcuffed like that?" John asked, still massaging Sherlock's back. 

"You were handcuffed like I was, but when I went to unlock you, I . . . decided not to," Sherlock said, "I don't know why, but it was pretty sexy."

"Because I'd be all yours -- to do whatever you wanted with me," John whispered, pressing into his lower back now.

"When I woke up, I thought about that very point and I decided that if the dream had really happened, after the kiss, I would . . . have read you the excellent paper I wrote for my chemistry course last year. Oh yeah, that would have been hot."

John laughed loudly and dropped his head onto Sherlock's back. He rolled off, still laughing. "Well, there goes the mood. You killed it," he said breathlessly. 

Sherlock turned over and leaned over John. "See, I told you you'd go off me once you got to know the real me," he leaned down and kissed John's mouth again, sliding one hand down to his hip.

John hummed in surprise, kissing him back when he got himself together. His hand came up to Sherlock's cheek again, sliding into his hair. 

"This is nice," Sherlock said softly, smiling and kissing John again.

"Better than . . . a term paper," he teased between kisses. 

"Ouch," Sherlock said, "that hurts. It's a really good paper, John." He kissed John again, this time a little harder, then nipped at John's lower lip.

"Maybe, but not as good as snogging you," John murmured, leaning up to catch his mouth for a kiss again. 

Sherlock leaned some of his weight onto John and gripped John's hip as he continued to kiss his mouth. Then he dragged his lips across John's cheek and lowered them to his neck.

John moaned softly, his hand sliding into Sherlock's hair. "That's nice, too," he murmured.

"It is," Sherlock said against John's neck. "Your skin tastes good."

John flushed and smiled softly. "Glad you like it," he murmured.

Sherlock slid back next to John, pulling his hip towards Sherlock's body. He moved his hand to John's lower back and pushed him towards his body. He watched John's face, not wanting to push him past him comfort zone but not wanting to stop this either. He began to suck softly on John's neck.

John gripped Sherlock's arm, met his gaze and pushed against him. He moaned softly and turned his head, giving Sherlock better access to his neck. He thrust forward again, and then again. He felt very warm, but it was so good. 

"Is this what you wanted, then?" Sherlock asked, his voice slightly husky. "Is this what you were thinking of all those times you were staring at me?" His hands roamed John's back, still putting pressure, moving him closer.

John allowed the pressure, helping by pushing his body against Sherlock's harder. He nodded, even though the furthest his dreaming ever went was kissing. "Yes, I just wanted . . . you . . .anything you'd give me," he mumbled a bit desperately.

"Is that what you want now . . . anything I'll give you?" Sherlock asked. He heard his voice and knew it was his seduction voice, but didn't care at the moment. The dream had started him on this path and John was very sexy and this just felt good.

John hesitated. Two hours ago he didn't think they'd be kissing, let alone more. But he was painfully hard, he clearly wanted Sherlock. He nodded again. "I'm so hard, Sherlock," he moaned softly. He knew that didn't exactly answer the question, but it felt important that he mention it.

"John Watson," Sherlock said into John's hair as he slipped his hand to palm John's erection. "Here you were, playing all naive, and now you're flaunting that erection when all I wanted to do was watch a simple movie? You are indeed a very interesting person. What more surprises are you going to share with me?"

John bucked into his hand but laughed breathlessly. "It's your fault with your kissing and -- and touching," he murmured, thrusting into his hand again.

"Can I unzip this?" Sherlock asked, his hand resting above the button of John's waistband, which he had already managed to undo. He pressed his long fingers against John's hardness as he waited for John's answer.

"Yes," John nodded, touching Sherlock's hand lightly before pulling his hand back again.

Sherlock unzipped John's trousers and slid his hand around John's hard cock. It was warm against his skin and he just held it for a moment as he continued kissing John, before beginning a slow, strong stroke.

John's eyes fluttered closed and he tried to keep his brain together. "You -- you too," he breathed, his hand scrambling for a good grip on Sherlock.

Sherlock moved softly into John's hand -- god, he hadn't been touched for a long time and it felt so good. The air between them was hot and he felt his breath changing and he kissed John harder. "John," he said quietly, finding it hard to make a full sentence.

John gripped and palmed at the bulge that met his hand, panting into sloppy kisses. Then he began to properly stoke him. "Sherlock . . . fuck," he moaned.

"Feels good, John," Sherlock said softly, "don't stop." His stroke sped up and he bucked his hips against John's hand.

"My mouth," John panted. "Dream about my mouth . . .here." And on the last word he gripped a bit harder, moving faster.

"Fuck, John," Sherlock said, "You're almost too much for me, I don't . . ." He didn't want to finish -- he didn't want to say that he did this so infrequently he could rarely last very long despite wanting to, knowing that it'd end up being a long time before he had an opportunity to do it again. He tried to just enjoy the feeling that John was giving him and the feeling of what he was doing to John.

"Don't what?" John panted, turning to get a better grip. He swiped his thumb over the tip, pushing his mouth to Sherlock's neck and sucking hard.

"Don't know how much more I can take," Sherlock huffed out. He was panting now and he felt like he could hear his own heart beating. His hips were moving and he could feel the movement of the bed under their bodies. He hadn't planned on this happening -- he wished he could assure John of that -- but now that it had started he didn't want it to stop.

"M'close, too," John mumbled into his skin.  "You're so sexy . . . feels so good," he panted breathlessly. "Are you imagining it now, my mouth on your cock?" John wanted to make Sherlock come -- to force it from him when he was trying so hard to hold on. He wasn't sure why this seemed important; he just loved the idea of being the reason for this.

"I'm thinking of your mouth, John, I'll think of it tonight when I'm alone," Sherlock said. He could feel the tension start in his stomach and then he was no longer in control of his body as it bucked and jerked. He did his best to keep the movement on John's cock, but then he was coming over John's hand and on both of their trousers. "God," he called out, panting, his heart pounding.

John grinned against his neck, bucking wildly into his hand, stroking Sherlock through his orgasm. It was lovely. It wasn't long after that John groaned, shuddering out heavy breaths as he came all over them. "Fucking hell . . . Sherlock . . . fuck." He fell back against the bed, his hand moving lazily now until it stopped completely. "Sherlock," he murmured, just to say it. He couldn't believe that has happened.

Sherlock stayed still on his bed, not moving for a few moments. Then he rolled away a bit from John and said, "Well, I hadn't expected that to happen." He took a couple of deep breaths and then leaned over to the bedside table to grab some tissues. He handed some to John and then wiped up the mess. "It was good, though, felt good."

John nodded, trying to clean up what he could. It wouldn't come off the fabric so easily but he figured he could get to his room before anyone noticed. "Yeah, it was good," he nodded.

Sherlock stood up from the bed and moved to make another cup of tea. "Do you want one or are you heading off soon?"

John looked over at him, feeling his face heat up. "I -- do you want me to go?" He asked, feeling a bit ashamed. Is that what he'd been invited over for? Is that all Sherlock wanted from this?

"Of course, stay as long as you want," Sherlock said, smiling. "Tea then?"

"Um, no thanks," he shook his head. He put himself away and zipped up, sitting up to lean on the wall again. He munched on a biscuit, watching Sherlock.

Sherlock turned off the film, sitting down on the bed with his cup of tea. "So . . . what now?"

John glanced at the telly and wished he'd left it on for background noise. He felt awkward, like he was over staying. "I don't know," he admitted. The things he was saying before seemed to echo loudly in the room and he flushed lightly. "Did you dream about that?" he finally asked.

"No," Sherlock said honestly. "I woke up before . . . that. Are you all right about it? I thought you wanted to do it. I hope you didn't feel . . . I thought you wanted to."

"I did -- I do," he said quickly. "I'm fine." He ate another biscuit, not wanting to act strangely. He could do casual. He could.

"Good, me too. Look, let's not make a thing about it, okay? I don't really do this, but now we have and it's all okay, yeah?" Sherlock said, trying to make his voice sound normal. He put his hand on John's leg for a second. "Okay?"

"Yes, it's okay. But how . . . so how will this work?" John asked, looking up at him. He kept his hand on Sherlock's as he spoke. "You'll just . . . call me when you want it?"

Sherlock pulled his hand away from John's. "What? What are you talking about?" He turned himself slightly on the bed and then just stood up, walking over to the desk. "Look, maybe you should go after all," he said, looking down at the floor.

"No, please," John said quickly, sitting on the edge of the bed. His chest tightened with guilt. "Sherlock, please -- I just thought, I mean, when you asked me to go right after I thought -- I'm sorry. Please . . ." He wrung his hands and held back from touching Sherlock, knowing it wouldn't be a good idea at the moment. 

"Look, it's fine, this can be whatever you wanted it to be, it's . . . I've got work to do so it's probably just best if you go. We can talk later, I just . . . I think I'd like you to go now."

"I'm sorry . . . please," John mumbled, standing up, "I'm sorry." He left slowly, feeling numb and broken. Everything had been so good until he opened his stupid mouth. He pressed his hands into his palms so he wouldn't cry as he hurried to his own dorm. 


	4. In Sherlock's Room, The Second Time

Sherlock didn't move as John left his room. He didn't move after. He just stared off towards the bed.

Since being here, he'd been with other people on that bed. Usually people like John -- who had 'noticed' him, found him intriguing, wanted him simply because he was 'different' -- and then once they'd had him, he was no longer mysterious and apparently no longer needed. Maybe months later, when they were drunk or lonely, he'd get a text and an invitation over, but he never went. That's what had always happened -- it didn't matter if it was a man or a woman, it basically always played like that. Had he really expected it to be different with the captain of the rugby team who was leaving uni shortly to go into the military? It was stupid, he'd been stupid.

He knew how it went and that's why most of the time he just crossed out any desires he felt; it was easier that way. Obviously he did have those desires, he was human despite what his brother tried to tell him, and he had felt desire for John. But it wasn't just that. He hadn't thought it was just that. Why had John made that assumption? And there was something about John's question -- about Sherlock calling when he wanted 'it' -- why the hell did John assume Sherlock would be the user? It made him a bit sick to his stomach to think he had got everything so wrong with John.

He pulled down the blinds over the windows, double checked the lock on the door and got into bed even though it was still light out. He tried to make sense of it all. After a little while, he had come to a decision.

If that's how John wanted things, then that's how Sherlock could be. Obviously John just wanted to see what it was like being with a man -- he said before this was the first time he'd shown any 'real' interest and despite being all shy, John was the one who started talking about being hard -- obviously he was using Sherlock to decide if he really was gay. He was going into the military, for god's sake, that couldn't really be the ideal place to experiment. So, fine, this could be just about lust. Sherlock could try to do that.

John curled up in bed and couldn't help crying now. Sherlock had been the one to call him to his room, to bring up dreams and handcuffs and asking John for the seducing massage and kissing his neck and -- he cut off the thoughts, feeling slightly sick. Didn't Sherlock comprehend anything that John had said? Staring at him for so long, dreaming about him, fantasising about kissing him -- oh. Okay, well, maybe that didn't exactly scream love or a real relationship, but still. 

He sighed heavily and turned on his back. He missed it already. Sherlock's long fingers touching his, his lips on his neck, on his skin. He tasted so good. John licked his lips and sighed. You know you're going back, said the voice in his head. And it was right. If Sherlock called him for a quickie, he would go. He would go because it felt good and he really did like him so much -- although that might just cause more problems. Oh well. He would deal with that later. He'd be going off to the military at the end of the year anyways. Why not have a little fun before then? He didn't know what was going to happen now, but he would wait and see what Sherlock decided to do. 

He tried to prepare himself for either answer or for no answer at all -- because, of course, there was the chance that Sherlock wouldn't want anything to do with him again. He realised that would be even worse than just having casual sex, but he would respect whatever Sherlock decided. 

After having made his decision, Sherlock fell asleep. When he woke up, he thought about it again and realised it was worth a shot. Who knows -- maybe he was better cut out for this role? He reached for his phone.

_Just to be clear: what you suggested, about my calling, that's good for you? SH_

John had fallen into a fitful sleep, dreaming about Sherlock again but everything was blurry and unclear. He woke up feeling upset and confused. He took a long shower and made some tea before checking his phone. He felt his stomach drop a bit, he took a deep breath and set his jaw. 

_Perfect arrangement. Yes. -JW_

_Fine. Then consider this my first call. Come to mine in one hour. Before you leave yours, put the handcuffs under your pillow. SH_

Sherlock got up for the bed and sorted some of his school stuff. Then he went in to take a shower. He dug through a box in the corner of the room. When he found what he was looking for, he moved to the bedside cabinet and got out a bottle of lube and a box of condoms. He set them with the handcuffs he took out of the box on the bed, and then sat down at his desk and read the news online, waiting for John to arrive.

_Okay. But why am I putting the cuffs under my pillow? -JW_

_Because I've asked you to. It's a relatively simple request. Do it and then come over. SH_

_But what's the point? And I still have forty five minutes. -JW_

_The point is you said I could call when I wanted it. I want it. And part of the it is your putting them under your pillow. If this is too difficult for you, we can forget the whole idea right now. Just let me know. SH_

John snatched the cuffs from the drawer and shoved them under his pillow, fuming slightly at the message. 

_Done. -JW_

_Now that wasn't so difficult, was it? I'll see you in forty two minutes. SH  
_

John didn't even grace that with a reply. He tossed the phone away from him on the bed and pulled open his book. Maybe he would be a minute late, just because.

Sherlock Googled John's name and read about some of his rugby triumphs (boring) and some award he had won before he came to uni. Then he hacked into the university's system and looked over John's transcript: not perfect grades but Sherlock had been right, John was surprisingly clever. Through the corner of his eye, Sherlock watched the clock on his computer change, every minute of the wait seemed so long.

When there were two minutes left John finally made his way over to Sherlock's dorm. He was outside of the door on time, but he waited one more minutes before knocking. He tried to keep his face neutral, like he hadn't even noticed. 

This time he didn't call out but stood up and opened the door for John but turned without speaking and sat back down on the desk. Then he said, "There are three things for you on the bed, John Watson. Take a look."

John shut the door behind him and looked over at the bed where he saw cuffs (again), a bottle of lube, and condoms. He swallowed hard and gathered up his nerve. "You shouldn't have -- and here I show up empty handed," he said. 

"Not a problem, you've brought everything I need from you this visit. Lie down on the bed, please," Sherlock then said.

John took his jacket off and hung it on the back of the desk chair before moving the things from the bed to the desk. Then he climbed up and lay down. He couldn't help thinking about the night before, anticipating where Sherlock would touch him next. His anger faded into arousal and curiosity, but he reminded himself to keep up his attitude so things wouldn't get weird. 

Sherlock got up and moved to the bed himself, sitting up, facing John. He began stroking John's leg and then moved his hand between John's legs, then rubbing it over the zip of John's trousers. "Before, you told me to imagine your mouth, which I did. Yet when I slept, I didn't dream of your mouth at all. Now that can't be right, John. I think we'll need to do something about that." He flicked John's trouser button open and began to use a bit more pressure as he rubbed. He kept rubbing until he was sure John was getting hard and then he picked up one of John's hands and moved it to his own crotch. Then he said, "I'd like you to stand up from the bed now, John, and remove your clothes, please. I am asking you quite nicely, you'll note, so if we could keep the questions to a minimum, that'd probably be much easier."

John fought the urge to say 'yes sir' and simply did as Sherlock asked. He stood up, took off his sweater and undershirt, putting them on the desk chair as well. He kicked off his shoes, pulling off his socks, and finally worked off his trousers and pants. He flushed a bit when he stood back up, feeling much too exposed this way. "Aren't you taking anything off?" he asked, trying to keep his voice light. 

"You know you were right that first morning, questions can get tedious," Sherlock said, turning on the bed so he was sitting facing John. When John was nude, Sherlock stood and put his hands on John's face and kissed his mouth, slow and long. He dragged his mouth to John's neck, sucking the skin, as he dropped one hand to John's cock and stroked it a few times. Then he stepped back, undid his trousers and pulled them to his knees. He sat back down on the bed and said to John, "Your mouth, please."

John wished Sherlock wouldn't kiss him like that because it was so lovely -- so very different from this arrangement they had stumbled into. But that disappeared instantly when Sherlock pulled away. John tried to appear more confident than he was, walking closer to Sherlock and kneeling down in front of him. He used his hand first, stroking Sherlock and trying to get a feel for just how big he was. Then John put his mouth around the tip, sliding down a bit and coming back up. His hand stroked what he couldn't fit, his head bobbing as he tried to adjust around Sherlock, tried to take more of him in to make it good.

"Fuck, John," Sherlock exhaled. He leaned back on his hands and closed his eyes. It felt incredible, it had been so long since someone had done this to him. Maybe this would be all right, maybe he could get used to it meaning nothing except pleasure. Maybe having no expectations was the trick. He felt like dropping back on to the bed, but he didn't. Instead he straightened back up and looked down at John sucking his cock, and the sight was gorgeous.

John glanced up and met his gaze, bobbing and humming softly. His mouth felt a bit stretched but he was adjusting, sucking easier now. He hollowed his cheeks and moved a bit faster, his hand still pumping near the base. He'd never done this with anyone before and he tried to keep the sentimentality out of it. Who cared? He was young and single -- having fun like this was allowed, expected even. That thought didn't make him feel any better so he pushed thought away and focused on what he was doing, focusing on the feel and taste of Sherlock's cock in his mouth. 

"John," Sherlock said and then he pushed him back a bit. He carefully said, "That should do the trick, I think. That was very good, John. I can't tell you how fucking sexy it was, I presume it's quite obvious I enjoyed it." His hand rubbed John's shoulder as he spoke. "Let's get you on to the bed now," he said gently, helping John up from his knees, as he pulled up his trousers. Sherlock shifted a pillow to the middle of the bed on the far side so John could lie crossways. "Turn your head and look at the desk now," Sherlock said, moving over to it. "I'm going to bring two items back to the bed. The other one will stay on the desk. I'd like you to keep an eye on it for me," Sherlock said. He picked up the condoms and lube and moved back over to the bed. He crawled up over John and leaned down and kissed him again. His legs were on either side of John's body, and he lowered himself just enough so that his trousers brushed against John's hard cock, before he lifted his hips a little and moved down to suck on one of John's nipples. "Did you want me to bring the handcuffs as well?" he asked, biting softly.

John kept his eyes on the cuffs, even as they were kissing. He was trying to get into the mind set of it, imagining what it would be like to have his arms trapped, unable to do anything no matter what Sherlock did. But he would have his mouth, his words, and whatever this arrangement was Sherlock wouldn't hurt him. So he shifted his thinking, and imagined himself tied up as if this wasn't the first time it was happening. He'd be all Sherlock's, helpless to whatever whims he's come up with and it would feel good -- he knew Sherlock would make him feel good. He just had to let go and trust him. He pulled his eyes away from the cuffs and looked at Sherlock for a long moment, looked into his eyes. "Yes, I did," he finally said, nodding. 

"Well, I'm not going to today," Sherlock said, biting a little harder. "You came here today of your own free will, and I'd like to be one hundred percent sure that's why you're staying. However, I shall file that information away for future reference." He moved his body a little lower and licked a stripe up John's cock. Then he rest on his elbows and poured some lube into his hand, when he then slide up John's thigh. He rubbed John's balls and let his fingertips brush across his hole as he swirled his tongue around the tip of John's cock.

John whimpered softly and instinctively twitched away. "Sorry," he mumbled, closing his eyes. He took a deep breath and relaxed his body, reminded himself that he wanted this. He had come here of his own free will. He felt the need -- heat pooling into his stomach already -- and he relaxed so he could feel it, so he could actually get it. 

"That's good, relax your body, John," Sherlock said softly and he slowly pushed one slick finger into him. He lifted up again and hovered his mouth over John's, looking him in the eyes. Then he lowered his chin, licking John's lips before kissing him long and slow again. He began to gently pump his finger as he kissed him.

John pulled back and tightened around his finger, but the kiss helped him relax again and he focused on the feeling of Sherlock's finger in his body. When he relaxed around it he moaned softly, and suddenly the movement felt better, easier, like it was meant to be there. 

"That's good, John, isn't it? That's why you came here, because you wanted that feeling," Sherlock said, moving up to suck on John's neck again. He curled his finger and just brushed it against John's prostate. "Oh yes, you like it but the problem is, it's already not enough, is it? Do you want more, John?" Sherlock's cock ached, trapped in his trousers.

John nodded, holding the back of his head lightly. He was right. Now that he was used to that one finger, it was simply there, with the occasional pleasure burst from his prostate. "Yes . . . I want more . . . please, Sherlock." He bucked his hips lightly, pushing down on his hand..  

Sherlock pulled his finger almost all the way out but pushed two back in. He picked up the pace a little and pulled up to watch John's body's reaction. He was moving himself on the bed, which made Sherlock want to move even more. "Are you going to let me fuck you, John?" he asked.

John swallowed and took a moment to answer, getting his nerve up again he tried to relax around two fingers now. "That's why I'm here, isn't it?" he said between his breathing. He met Sherlock's eyes, raising his brows lightly, and pushing down on his fingers. 

For some reason the sound of John's voice was almost too much. Sherlock separated his fingers, stretching him. Then he couldn't take it anymore. He moved back off John and stepped off the bed. He dragged another pillow to the edge and said, "Move closer then put your hands over your head." He opened his trousers and stepped out of them. He stroked himself and rolled on a condom. He poured more lube into his hand and rubbed it all over John, before lining himself up and then holding John's legs tightly, slowly pushed in. "God," he called out.

John was glad his hands weren't tied for this -- this first time. His hands closed around the bed sheet hard and his breath hitched in his throat. The stretch was unbelievable, so much more than before. But then there was the thought that it was Sherlock -- that Sherlock was inside of him, that Sherlock was his first. He whimpered softly, and took deep breaths, forcing his body to relax just like before. It was just like the fingers, only bigger. That was all. 

"Relax into it, John," Sherlock said softly. "You feel so good to me, but I want you to feel good." Sherlock rubbed his hands up and down John's legs, squeezing the muscles. "Fuck, do you feel good . . . tell me when I can move."

"Move," John mumbled between deep breaths. He just needed the movement to open him up a bit, to relax the muscle so he wasn't just squeezing Sherlock.

There was a part of Sherlock that just wanted to start thrusting, pounding into John. But he didn't. It was obvious John had never done this before and, even if this was supposed to be just meaningless sex, Sherlock couldn't help it -- that meant something to him. So he began to slowly rock his hips, sliding himself back and forth into John. He moved smoothly and it felt fantastic.

"Fuck," John moaned, his eyes slipping shut. It felt . . . odd, but so very, very good. Sherlock was slipping easily into his body now. He felt Sherlock deep, felt him in so many places more than just the entrance. One day you're going to meet someone you love and you'll have to tell them how you lost your virginity, John thought. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced the thought away. He didn't want to think about things like that. "Harder," he moaned, wanting to be completely lost. "Sherlock, please . . . harder."

Suddenly it was too much for Sherlock. True, this wasn't his first time, but it was his first time in a long time and the feel and sight of John's body and the sound of his voice were too much. He stopped moving and bent John's legs, placing his feet on the bed. "Push yourself back," he said, pulling off the condom and crawling over John. He kissed his mouth and slid his hand down to hold their cocks together. Then he began to rock his hips again, this time letting them move more freely. His mouth moved to John's neck and he began panting slightly against the soft skin. "I want us to come like this," he said quietly.

John felt himself pulsing, the emptiness a bit too sudden floor his liking. But hell, Sherlock knew how to use his hands. John bucked carelessly into his hand, bringing both of his own around Sherlock. "I'm going to come," he panted, his body moving so strongly that he was arching off of the bed.

"Come," Sherlock said and then his own orgasm hit him and he felt warm, wetness on his fingers and his heart pounding in his chest.

John didn't hesitate for a second, letting go and coming into Sherlock's hand. His fingers dug into Sherlock and when it was over, his hands fell onto the bed heavily. He was panting, quickly trying to catch his breath as his mind was already reeling with what they did. He tried not to think about it, focusing on Sherlock's breathing instead.

Sherlock dropped down onto John and slid his hands between his back and the mattress, not thinking about anything but wanting to squeeze him tightly and kiss him softly on the mouth. Then he slid a little awkwardly to John's side and let one hand rest on John's chest. They lay there silently for a few minutes and then Sherlock said, "You don't have to leave but please know you are also not obliged to stay." As the words came out of his mouth, he realised that it wasn't what he had really wanted to say, but had felt like he should. Because that was the arrangement, right? That's how John wanted 'this to work'. So he just stayed there silently next to him, letting John decide.

For a second John just lay there, trying not to let his feelings overwhelm him. He'd just had sex with a boy -- with Sherlock, whom he'd liked for so long -- for the first time. He wanted to curl into him, to lay in his arms for the rest of the day and take a nap. But then Sherlock spoke, and it was nothing close to what John wanted to hear. The arrangement was already made, understood by both of them. So why did he have to say that? To rub it in? Did he know John was too sentimental and would try and overstay his welcome like before? John shifted and sat up, wincing lightly. That was new. He dressed silently, keeping his feelings at bay until he could get to his own room, and then he left.


	5. No One's Happy

Sherlock couldn't believe John had chosen to go. He wondered how John could be so . . . it was his first time and he didn't want to . . . he just wanted to get out of there? It just seemed so strange to Sherlock, but then again Sherlock's past couldn't exactly be defined as normal, so he wasn't really in the position to know how this should go. He just knew he hadn't wanted John to leave.

Sherlock sat up and put his trousers on and then got up to turn on the kettle. And now what? he thought. Just nothing . . . until he called John to say he wanted 'it'? This didn't seem right, it didn't make Sherlock feel good.

Is this how the others had felt about Sherlock? Did they really feel okay about the arrangement? He picked up his phone and flicked through his old messages until he found one from Jim. It was from the end of summer, four month ago, and Sherlock had not responded. He tried to imagine Jim's face writing it. He looked up at his own face in the mirror. Is that who he was now? He looked at his phone.

_I need something from you. SH_

He hit Send and immediately regretted it. But he also knew he wouldn't change his mind. A few minutes later he heard his phone buzz.

_Your response time is lagging. However, I am still amenable. JM_

_Not that. The other. SH_

_You're no fun. But I find any kind of desperation enjoyable. Usual place in twenty minutes. JM_

Sherlock looked at his face in the mirror. This was probably a very stupid thing to do. But he didn't want to think about John. No, that's a lie. He did want to think about John, but not in the way they had apparently agreed to think about each other. And despite this being a very bad choice, he knew it would help stop him thinking. He looked at his phone again.

_Soaking in a bath might help. SH_

He sent it to John and then turned his phone on silent, slipped it into his pocket and left the room.

He walked, following the path off the campus and then passed down a gitty which led to a deserted playground. He saw Jim sitting on a swing. He was sharply dressed, and Sherlock hated himself for admitting that he did look handsome. He sat on the swing next to him.

"Oh my, what problem has Sherlock Holmes got himself into that only opium can solve?" Jim asked. He was chewing gum, which Sherlock hated but was glad for as it reminded him how distasteful Jim really was.

"There's no problem," Sherlock lied. "I just fancied it."

"Right. You call and I come. Yet when I fancy 'it', you do not respond. I really feel like I'm giving more to this friendship than you are," Jim said, grinning his obnoxious grin.

Sherlock said nothing.

"Come on then," Jim said, standing up and heading into a wooded patch. Sherlock followed him. Jim pulled a small glass pipe out of his pocket and handed it to Sherlock. "Ladies first," he said.

Sherlock held the lighter under the glass bowl and took a long inhale of the vapour. It seemed like he could literally feel it cloud his head and he was glad. He handed it back to Jim who also took a hit. They didn't speak. After one more pass, Sherlock said, "That's enough."

Jim smiled. "So you achieved your very obviously specific purpose, Sherlock Holmes? And what was that? What are you trying to forget?"

Sherlock adjusted the scarf around his neck. He looked at Jim and said, "I told you, I just fancied it. Anyway, thanks" but before he could turn to leave, Jim stepped up close to him and leaned in against him.

"You smell of sex, Sherlock Holmes. Is there someone new then? Whose play thing are you now?"

"Fuck off," Sherlock said and walked away. He rushed back to his room, not wanting to waste a moment of his clouded mind. He didn't look at his phone, his computer or his clock but just stripped off his clothes and got into his bed. He closed his eyes and lost himself in his empty head.

John was crying again, and he was so tired of crying. He could have stayed, Sherlock had given him that option, but he knew better. That was just Sherlock being polite. He was curled under the blankets for a long time before he got himself up to use the bathroom. He checked his phone and flushed at the message. Why did he send that? Why did he care about how John was feeling? He was done with him now. He tried not to think about Sherlock as he took the advice, pushing his pride aside because he really was sore. He filled the tub and lay in the hot water for a long time. But of course his mind wandered to Sherlock anyways -- how could it not? He thought about the things they did, the things he had done, and he wondered how people did this sort of thing all the time. John knew that after this year, when they went their separate ways, John would never do anything like this again.

As good as he felt while they were together, John felt a hundred times worse afterwards. When he finally got himself back into bed he looked through the messages he'd shared with Sherlock. Everything had started out so well. He'd been hopeful that something good was coming. It was crazy to think that things ended up this way because of one line -- Sherlock's asking him if he was leaving after the handjob. How different would things be now if Sherlock had asked him to pick another movie? Or to ask him to have dinner? John would have asked him on a date at some point. Eventually he exhausted all possible thoughts about Sherlock and how things could have ended up. He got himself up again and numbly did his homework. 

Halfway through he got a text from Greg, asking him to come out with the guys but John declined. They were the last people he wanted to see right now. He went to bed shortly after and when he slid his hand under his pillow, he felt the handcuffs. He felt upset all over again. He ended up having fitful dreams about Sherlock again, about being locked in a dark room and only visited when Sherlock was in the mood. He kept telling himself that Sherlock wasn't really like that, but the self that was tied up wasn't buying it. He woke up before the sun and swore when he realised he was crying again. _It's just because it was the first time. It'll get easier._

When Sherlock woke up, he closed his eyes again as soon as they opened. He had dreamt about John -- not John's mouth, there was no sex in the dream at all. He and John had been walking, they had been holding hands, they had been laughing. That's all he could remember about the dream but it had been so fucking lovely, he wished he hadn't dreamt it.

He opened his eyes and looked at the clock. He been asleep for almost an entire day. He tried to get things clear -- it was Saturday afternoon, there was nothing he had missed. He needn't feel bad about making the choice to sleep it away. Then he tasted the inside of his mouth and remembered the rest of the story, the reason he had been able to sleep. He did feel bad about that. He felt very bad about that. He got up, brushed his teeth and washed his face before putting on the kettle. He picked up his phone. Gratefully, he saw there were no messages from Jim. But there were no messages from John either. He set the phone down and sat at his desk, listening to the kettle and trying not to think.

When John finally got up to get something to eat, he noted that he didn't feel sore anymore. He picked up his phone and played with it for a few minutes before sending the message he was thinking.

_Thanks for the tip. -JW_

He hoped Sherlock would know what he was talking about. He set the phone down but then picked it up again to text Greg. Maybe they could meet for lunch or something and he could get his mind a bit clearer. Greg agreed and John got dressed, leaving the dorm to meet him.

Sherlock smiled at John's text. Sherlock smiled at the thought of John. He couldn't help it. He thought about what had happened before and then thought about how he had felt forced to deal with it after. That was no good. Either he had to stop seeing John . . . no, he didn't want to stop seeing John. That couldn't be an option. Therefore the only other option was to pull himself together and play along with what John wanted. He didn't let himself look in the mirror.

_Glad it helped. Feel up for more later on? I'd like to see you in my room. SH  
_

_Sure. I'm meeting Greg for lunch, but I can come after. -JW_

John found Greg at a small cafe, sitting down near the window. "You look like hell, mate," Greg said.

"Yeah, I haven't been sleeping well," he shrugged.

"What's up?" Greg asked, digging into his own meal. John shook his head, resting on his elbow. "Is this about the Sherlock thing still?"

"We've been talking," John said. "I'm over all that."

"Just talking?" Greg asked, raising his brows.

"Don't, okay?" John asked quietly.

Greg looked at him for a moment. "I know you like him, John, but that's no reason to let him treat you like shit."

"He's not. Just . . . I don't want to talk about that. What's new?"

Greg reluctantly complied and told him about going to visit his parents next weekend and what they'd be doing. When they were done Greg asked him to come over but John declined, telling him about going to meet Sherlock. Greg looked like he wanted to argue, but he let John go.


	6. In Sherlock's Room, The Third Time

Sherlock opened the door silently when John arrived. He let John come in and then pointed towards the bed. "Handcuffs," he said, "are in the bedside table. Take your clothes off and then, if you want me to cuff you, get them out of the drawer." He stood and watched, waiting for John.

John just barely held back a flinch at his tone. But this was what it was and he had to get his head in the game -- he had wanted this as well, he said he had. He stripped silently, took the handcuffs out of the drawer and lay down. He put them on his stomach, not knowing what else to do with them.

Sherlock sat down next to John on the bed. He leaned over and kissed him softly, he kissed him like . . . he was falling in love with him, so he caught himself and pulled back. "Lift your hands above your head, behind your back will hurt and I don't want to hurt you," Sherlock said. He handcuffed John's wrists around a slat of the headboard. Then he stood up and looked at John. "Is this what you wanted, like you said before, you're all mine now . . . to do whatever I want with you? Is that your thing then, giving full responsibility to me?" He didn't know why he was talking. John hadn't come here to talk.

"Yes," John nodded. "All yours, until we graduate anyways," he added in a mutter. He tugged on his hands just because, and then looked at Sherlock again. He wanted to kiss him, to kiss him like he had just a moment ago. But he wasn't going to ask. Not for something like that. They weren't here for that.

That's not what Sherlock had wanted to hear, to be told he was temporary, here to serve a purpose. Just like before -- he felt just like before even though he was the one who was supposed to be in charge. "No talking now," Sherlock said and crawled up onto the bed. He hadn't taken any of his clothes off yet. He moved between John's legs and leaned down over John's cock, just hovering above it so John could feel his breath. "Make this hard," Sherlock instructed as he moved lower. He gripped John's inner thighs with his hands and then leaned down, sucking his balls into his mouth gently.

John whimpered softly, thinking about everything they had done already and what Sherlock was doing now. It didn't take him long to get hard. He tugged on his hands again, sighing softly.  

Sherlock moved his mouth to the crease where John's leg met his body. It was already damp as John's skin warmed. It also tasted slightly of soap. He sucked the skin and then moved to the other side. And then he dragged his tongue over John's hole, slowly, before licking across his balls again. Sherlock's hands gripped John's thighs and pressed, pushing his legs wider open. He curled the tip of his tongue and pushed it into John, feeling the tightness hold it, before he flicked it back out.

"Fucking hell," John moaned, squirming his hips and pulling on the cuffs again. "Sherlock . . ."

Sherlock pressed in again, stretching. He started fucking John with his tongue, listening to the changes in John's breathing, the reactions of John's body. He heard the handcuffs knock against the metal of the bed. There was a small part of him that felt sad almost, but he tried not to think of that. He moved one hand from John's legs and palmed himself through his trousers. He was hard and aching. He pulled his head back a little and said, "Do you want more, John? Tell me."

John felt embarrassed having Sherlock's mouth somewhere so intimate. "I want your cock," he murmured, squirming as Sherlock's breath ghosted over his entrance.

"You'll get my fingers first," Sherlock said, reaching over to the drawer to grab the bottle of lube. He poured some into his hand and then moved back, pushing two fingers into John, firmly but not roughly. "Okay?" he asked, looking up at John's face, trying to read it.

John met his gaze, holding his eyes as he nodded. "Yeah, I'm okay," he said. Being with Sherlock was good. All fine. It was being away from him that caused distress and numbness.

Sherlock started to pump his fingers into John as he leaned over and spread his tongue across John's cock. He sucked on the tip, tasting John's precome, and he felt the urge building in him. He spread his fingers a little, and then said, "Relax your body," He pushed three fingers in this time, thrusting them inside and almost back out before pushing in again. With his other hand, he lifted John's cock and sucked it into his mouth, pressing his face almost to John's body before lifting his head up again. There was only so much of all of this he could take before his own cock would need attention.

John's body shook slightly with each thrust, wanting to bring his hand down and hold him, hold his hair. He thought of the kissing before the movie, the kissing before everything got so messed up. He moaned and pulled on the cuffs harder.

Sherlock slid his fingers from John and quickly crawled up John's body. He kissed his neck and then slid to the side, reaching to unlock the cuffs. "Turn yourself over, leave your hands over your head," Sherlock ordered, cuffing John's wrists again once he was lying on his belly. Sherlock grabbed a condom from the drawer and climbed back onto the bed. "Push yourself up, knees and elbows," he said as he freed himself from his trousers and stroked. He rolled on the condom and dribbled more lube over John's hole. He pushed himself in, and this time he immediately began moving, not roughly but steadily. He gripped the front of John's hips and pulled them back against his thrusts.

John moaned with every movement, this new position making Sherlock go deeper into his body. It felt good, better than the first time. He wanted to pull a hand back and hold Sherlock's, but that was impossible. Kisses, though, he wanted to be kissed. He needed the connection, even just for a second. "Kiss me," he mumbled. "Please?"

Sherlock felt his heart hurt at John's words, like John was playing with him, even though he was the one who was supposed to be in control. He pushed himself deep into John and then stilled, leaning over and pressing a kiss onto the small of John's back. He slipped one of his hands to John's cock and stroked it slowly at first before speeding up and gripping hard. He let his head rest on John's back. His knees ached but he kept his own hips still as he pumped John's cock.

John whimpered, feeling like he'd been slapped in the face. He couldn't even get a proper kiss? He should have known. That's not why he was here after all. He dropped his head against the bed, swearing loudly. "I'm close," he moaned, trying to buck into Sherlock's hand. The feeling of him simply seated inside was very intense. 

"Then come," Sherlock said and he kept stroking. He slowly pulled his hips back from John's body, sliding himself out. He pushed in two fingers from his other hand to give John back the feeling, pumping and curling them to hit his prostate. "Come, John," he commanded.

John groaned loudly into the mattress and he came hard, his breath shuddering and his eyes rolled back and his hips twitching. Every nerve was on fire, bursting with pleasure. It seemed like it was never going to end when it finally ebbed away and he all but collapsed on the bed.

Sherlock leaned over and kissed John's back once again. Then he let go of John's cock and reached round to take off the condom. He carefully tucked himself away into his trousers and then moved to the side of John, leaning up and unlocking the handcuffs. He helped lower John's arms to his sides. Then he leaned against the headboard and pulled his knees up to his chest. He rested his hand softly on John's head, fussing his hair with his fingers, as he sat silently listening to John catch his breath.

John panted heavily--God, Sherlock's hand felt good. After a few minutes he blinked his eyes open, turning onto his side. "What about you?" he asked quietly.

"I'm fine," he said, his voice different even though he was trying to keep it the same. "Mine to do whatever I want with, you said, right?"

John looked up at his eyes and nodded. He didn't know why Sherlock wasn't finishing, and he wondered if there was something else planned. He felt exhausted, but he took deep breaths and nodded again.

"You should probably go now, John," Sherlock said.

John's stomach fell so quickly he didn't have time to stop the burning in his eyes. "Why didn't you finish with me?" he asked, keeping his eyes closed so he could get a hold of himself. Everything was weird enough without him crying after sex.

"Because --" Sherlock started but stopped himself. Talking about what he was feeling was not going to help him feel better and was not going to help this situation. This whole thing needed to stop and the first step was John leaving his room. "You came here to feel good, right? Did that not feel good? I know it did, so why should anything else matter?"  
  
John sat up and scooted to the end of the bed, putting his clothes on quickly, fuming in silence. He got up and grabbed his coat. "Whatever, Sherlock. You can sit here and wank yourself stupid for all I care." And with that he stormed out, guilt and anger making him feel sick as he hurried to his room, slamming the door. He leaned against it, sank onto the floor and swore loudly, cursing Sherlock for making him feel like this.


	7. In John's Room, Again

Sherlock sat quietly on the bed for a few minutes. And then he let out a huge gasp, like he couldn't breathe, like he hadn't taken a breath for hours. He stood up sharply and went into the bathroom. He turned on the shower, stripped and stepped into the stream of hot water. He soaped himself and rinsed and soaped again. He scrubbed the skin on his arms, neck and face, looking straight into the water. Then he sat down underneath it and cried.

John eventually got himself off of the floor and sank into his bed. He couldn't do it. This couldn't go on anymore. He had told himself it was temporary and thought that would be preparation enough, but it wasn't. He felt ashamed and guilty, and his heart was hurting. He couldn't do something so intimate with no strings. When Sherlock called for him again he was going to say no. He felt his eyes well up and he didn't even try and fight it. Things could have gone so well . . . he was in love with Sherlock, he was sure he was, and now they had messed it up. He could never have him now. He buried his face in the pillow, his shoulders shaking.

Eventually Sherlock got out of the shower and dried off. He dug in the bathroom drawer, reaching all the way to the back, and found the pill bottle Mycroft had given him. 'To help you sleep,' he had written on the label. Like Mycroft was a physician prescribing them, like these drugs were any different than the ones Sherlock had chosen. Whatever. He needed them now. He took four and crawled into his bed. He put on [**Sibelius's Violin Concerto**](http://youtu.be/YsbrRAgv1b4) and waited until the pills kicked in. It wasn't long before sleep swallowed him.

John couldn't stay in his room anymore, so he left and went to the track to run. He started slow, the pounding of his feet temporarily easing his mind. But as the thoughts started to catch up with him, he ran faster and faster until his chest was heaving, his lungs burning, and he was getting a stitch in his side. He slowed to a walk and headed back to his dorm, drawing another bath and soaking. He fell asleep, his mind thankfully blank, and then woke up pruney and cold. He put on pajamas and lay down, playing some music to ease the quiet.

Sherlock heard a noise in his sleep and sat up startled. The music he had left playing was still playing but seemed so loud. He leaned over and turned it off, noticing now that he had hit repeat. He looked at the clock -- it had just gone three in the morning. It wasn't late enough, he hadn't slept long enough. He saw his phone flashing and picked it up.

_I have something you want. You have something I want. Wanna trade? JM_

Sherlock's head was still fuzzy and he couldn't remember what was happening. And then he remembered seeing Jim the day before and he remembered John on his bed earlier and everything was confusing. Nothing made any sense.

_There is nothing I want from you. SH_

He opened his Inbox, but Jim's was the only new message. This made his stomach hurt. Everything was confusing. Nothing made any sense. His eyes were so heavy, he let them close but he knew it was too late. He wouldn't be able to go back to sleep. The text had reminded him of everything he was trying to forget. He needed air. He needed to not be in this room where it had all happened. He needed air.

He put his coat on and walked quietly out of the building. He lit a cigarette and smoked it. The quad was so silent. He wished he could disappear, he wished he had the power to just squeeze shut his eyes and make himself disappear from the world, out of the memory of everyone who had ever known him.

Even John? he asked himself and he realised the answer was yes. What he had become to John, in just a few short days, how the fuck had that happened? It hadn't been what Sherlock wanted. It hadn't been. He had been interested in John, he had just wanted to be near John, to get to know him. And to kiss him and make love to him, yes, he had wanted those things as well but now . . . how had this even happened?

Sherlock was terrible at having feelings for other people. He knew that. When he invited John over that first time, he had known that he wasn't very good with feelings, but he had risked it and now everything had got so out of control. There could be no more. No more of this. He threw the cigarette end down and walked across the quad. When he was underneath John's dark window, he tossed a pebble at it to get his attention. Sherlock knew John was probably asleep -- he hoped he was on his own -- but he threw another pebble. This had to be sorted now, Sherlock couldn't risk anymore. He couldn't take anymore of this.

John looked towards the window, frozen. He assumed it was just the wind, but then there was another tap and he knew it was on purpose. He got out of bed and peeked out, his brows furrowing in confusion. "Go away," he said through the window.

"I can't," Sherlock said, and all of a sudden, his head was too clouded and he felt confused and dizzy. "I'm sick," he said aloud and it was like he was hearing someone else speak. He bent over for a moment and tried to right himself. He stood up again slowly and looked up at John, "I need to speak to you . . . urgent, it's urgent."

John's stomach twisted. "Come inside," he said. "Come to the door." Something was wrong with Sherlock . . . he didn't look well at all. John got a glass of water and a washcloth with cool water while he waited.

Sherlock entered the building and paused for a moment on the stairs. Maybe he shouldn't have smoked that cigarette. The sleeping pills hadn't kept him asleep but they'd still be in his system and now the nicotine rush and the confusion of everything . . . he took a few deep breaths. He moved to John's room and knocked lightly. He had absolutely no idea what he was going to say to John when he opened the door.

John pulled him inside gently and shut the door, helping him to the bed. "Don't talk right now," he said, giving him the water. "Drink that and lay down." He saw Sherlock about to argue and he shook his head. "No, Sherlock. Lay down." When Sherlock did as John asked, John put the cloth on his forehead, covered him up, sat in his chair and pulled his knees up.

"This is humiliating," Sherlock mumbled. "It's all . . . been humiliating." He kept his eyes closed and suddenly the bed felt very comfortable and his muscles relaxed and his face cooled. But he didn't say anything else, because he didn't know what to say.

"Shh," John murmured. "Just go to sleep, Sherlock. It's okay." His heart swelled at the intimacy of this -- soft murmurs, taking care of him, helping him feel better. It was almost like the other feelings hadn't happened, like everything was proper and normal and good. "Just rest." He saw Sherlock drifting, and he lay his own head on his knees, closing his eyes.

Sherlock felt like he was sinking and he forgot where he was, why he'd come here, everything that had happened, and he just let it all go and fell into a sleep.

John dozed off on his chair, hunched over his legs, arms crossed on his knees. It was a light sleep since he wasn't very comfortable and his mind was half conscious for any stirring from Sherlock. He didn't dream again, but he preferred that after the last one.

Sherlock dreamt of John -- like he had before -- they were just walking and holding hands. He turned in his sleep, curling himself and moving a hand to the other pillow.

John woke up and shifted in the seat, putting his feet a bit closer and looking over at Sherlock. He wondered what Sherlock had taken but was glad that he'd come over . . . as strange as things were between them he was glad he hadn't passed out in an alley or something. He put his forehead on his knees and dozed off again.

After a while, Sherlock's brain started to wake up. He opened his eyes a little but didn't recognise his surroundings. His head ached; when he lifted his hand to it, he felt a damp cloth. And then he remembered what had happened and where he was. He looked over at John who was asleep in the chair. He was so . . . good, was John. How had this all happened? He sat up a little in the bed, but didn't know what was the right thing to do. So he did nothing.

John heard the movement, his brain half aware and worried. He blinked his eyes open and looked the bed, expecting to see Sherlock sleeping. But he wasn't. John lowered his legs, rubbed his knees a bit awkwardly, and cleared his throat lightly. "How do you feel?" He asked quietly.

"Embarrassed," Sherlock said, closing his eyes and leaning his head back.

"It's fine. Are you okay?" John asked, his eyes moving over Sherlock's face.

"Yes, I'm fine," Sherlock said. "Am I your first patient then?" he smiled weakly.

John smiled softly. "I suppose so," he said. He took the wet cloth to the bathroom and refilled his cup with fresh water. "What happened to you?"

"I smoked a cigarette before I came over, I think it just made me light-headed," Sherlock answered.

"Please don't lie to me, Sherlock. Please," John said wearily. "That wasn't just a cigarette . . . I was worried," he admitted.

"I took some sleeping pills before bed, you know, to help me sleep. They didn't work for the whole night, obviously. Then the cigarette. Just a bad combination, I guess," Sherlock said, unable to look over at John now.

John sighed softly. "Well . . . please don't do that again."

"Fine, I won't," Sherlock said. "Look . . . I'm sorry -- I'm -- I'm sorry I woke you."

"I wasn't sleeping . . . and I don't mind. I'm just glad you're okay." And he really couldn't express that enough. He was so glad Sherlock had come to him, so glad that he could help.

"No, I mean," Sherlock said, "why I came over here in the first place." He couldn't really find the right words because he didn't really even know what he was trying to say. "I'm just . . . sorry."

John remembered suddenly that Sherlock had wanted to tell him something, something urgent. It could only be about the arrangement they had. "Look Sherlock, don't worry about that. I don't . . . I want to stop," he said quietly.

Sherlock was surprised. Relieved, yes, but also surprised. "Oh," he said quietly, "okay then. Okay."

"Okay?" John asked, getting angry again. "Okay? That's it?" He stood up and started pacing. "I just . . . I've had a crush on you for so long and finally, we were finally interacting and all you wanted was sex! And I tried, Sherlock, I tried to do the casual thing because I love you, I love you, I do, and I thought it would be okay but you really take the casual thing seriously, don't you? Okay is all you have to say? Yeah, Sherlock. It's bloody fantastic." He hardly knew what he was saying, fuming and pacing.

'What the fuck are you talking about, John? Me? You think I'm the one who wanted it like this? Really -- was I the one talking about how soon we'll be graduating and it'll all be over and that'll be that? Was I the one who suggested I just call you whenever I wanted 'it'?" He spat out the word it -- he hated that phrase, hated that John had ever even said it in his presence. "You're the one who fancied me before you even knew me, you're the one who just wanted sex. Whether it was because you just wanted to see what it was like with a man or what, I do not know, but you're the one who seemed . . . just wait," Sherlock reached into his pocket for his phone, scanning through the messages. He looked up at John. "You're the one who wrote this" and he handed him the phone.

_Perfect arrangement. Yes. -JW_

John's vision blurred but he didn't care. "I was being --you kicked me out! We had just finished, I'd barely caught my breath and you suggested that I go! And you know what, Sh-Sherlock, you could have c-corrected me when I misunderstood. But I was angry and I didn't want to admit how I felt thinking you only wanted that. I w-went to my room and cried every fucking t-time. My first time . . . fuck you, Sherlock. Fuck you for thinking I was just trying it out. I told you w-what I liked about you, a-all the little things . . . I . . ." His voice broke and he couldn't go on. He covered his face because he was properly crying now, and he was just so tired of crying.

Sherlock moved out from under the covers. "No, John, no. I didn't, god damn it, John, I didn't kick you out. I asked if you were going, I asked because . . ." Fuck it, Sherlock thought, this was already humiliating enough, why not get it all out in the open? "I asked because that's what usually happens. People go. I asked you -- in fact I think I said for you to stay. But five minutes later, you're making arrangements for me to call you when . . . I didn't want it to be like that, John. I even texted you to clarify, remember, I texted you and you said this," he held up the phone again. "I hated that you left after your first time. I could not fucking handle it, John, you don't know. And then today? It's been all wrong, John, it's all been . . . not what I wanted." He dropped his head into his hands.

"Why didn't you t-tell me?" John stammered. "When I said that stupid . . .stupid line, why didn't you say that I had misunderstood? Imagine that from my side -- I come home to find you cuffed to my fucking bed and instead of it being an embarrassing disaster we laughed it off and moved on. And then . . . then you invite me over and you're demanding to know why and I admitted how I felt and the first thing we did was sex! Sort of -- the handjobs, I mean. And then the next day? And I know that's not your fault because I wasn't exactly saying no and the second we were done you asked if I'd be leaving. What the hell was I supposed to think? And you did nothing to correct me!" 

"John," Sherlock's voice was still wavering. "I didn't think that would happen the first time you came to mine. It wasn't a plan. I was interested in you, like I said. Yes, in that way as well, and then we were talking about things and it just happened, I hadn't planned it, I swear. And the second time, I didn't tell you to go, I wanted you to stay, but how could I say anything, when you seemed happy with the arrangement? I couldn't handle it when you left, I couldn't, it was all fucked up but I was afraid if it didn't stay the way it was, you'd . . . I wouldn't have you at all, which seemed worse. But today . . . today I realised I couldn't . . . even if it meant no contact at all . . . I just couldn't. It . . . was breaking my heart . . ."

John started breathing heavily, on the verge of tears again. How could they both be so stupid? "I agreed to all of it because . . . I didn't want to lose you," he mumbled, starting to cry again. "I love you, Sherlock. God, after that first time and the first thing you said to be was 'stay or go' like you didn't care either way and I wanted to stay -- God, I wanted to stay -- but I felt awkward, like I couldn't, like you didn't want me there. Like you were giving me a hint to get out." 

"But only because I thought it'd hurt less when you did leave. Which you did. And it still hurt." Sherlock's face burned from embarrassment and tears. "I'm so clever sometimes, John, but I am so bad at this -- why would anyone stay when I'm so bad at this? I thought at least I could at least keep you interested with . . . and then I wouldn't lose you totally." He turned his head away, staring at the floor.

"Look, I'm not going to pretend that I knew we'd be together forever, but maybe you should have given me a chance," John mumbled. "I'm sorry about the way people have been with you before . . ." John wiped his face hard and sank down in his desk chair, not knowing what else to say. He felt bed because Sherlock said everyone left, and if he had known . . . "I'm sorry," he said quietly. 

Sherlock swallowed. "I have to admit, John, even though it feels like there have been some clarifications made here, I'm just as confused as I was," he said. He wondered if John wanted him to go, but he didn't even know now how to tell what to do or say, so he just asked, "What should we do now?"

John shrugged. "I told you how I felt," he said quietly. "I don't have anything left, Sherlock." He wondered how Sherlock felt about him, but he didn't want to ask and force anything out. Whatever Sherlock decided now, John was going to respect it.

"And you still feel the same way even knowing how fucked up I am about these things? Even after all this tonight?" He moved his hands randomly through the air. "Can we really . . . start again despite what's happened?" Sherlock turned towards John, but still couldn't meet his glance.

"I'd like to," John admitted. "I know it's hard to believe but even now, after everything, I feel like if I let you go, this pit in my stomach is going to swallow me up and I'm never going to be whole again." He flushed and looked down, pulling his knees up again as if making himself smaller would make everything better. 

"What do you think it is about us, John, that makes these feelings so . . . big? I don't do feelings, John, I do my best to turn them off. But you . . . those texts the first night -- why did I send them? And then the dream? And still needing you even when it was breaking my heart? What is it, John, that makes me feel this way about you?"

John looked up at him, not knowing what to say. Love, of course, made people do things like that. But if Sherlock didn't understand that -- John wasn't about to force it on him.

"I never wanted to make you cry, John, and I'm worried because I can't guarantee that I won't again. I just get things wrong," Sherlock said, putting his head in his hands. "I don't know what to say now. I mean, I feel I should be talking you out of it, telling you that you should stay away from me. I feel I should, to protect you or maybe myself, I don't know. But fuck it, John, I don't want to say that. I want to say, please . . . I don't want to lose you. You make me need in a way I never have before and it's big and scary, but I don't want it to stop."

John blinked at him, nodding slowly. He stood up and crossed over to the bed, climbing up and crawling to Sherlock. He held Sherlock's cheeks in his hands, kissed his temple, and then pulled him into a very tight hug. He buried his head into Sherlock's neck and took deep breaths, losing himself right there. 

Sherlock slid his arms around John and held him. He said "John" into John's hair and he closed his eyes.

"I'm sorry . . . I'm so sorry," John murmured over and over into Sherlock's neck. 

"John, I'm sorry, I'm sorry I got everything so wrong . . ." he squeezed John tighter to him. "Let me try again, please."

John nodded against his neck, his arms wrapping tighter, not even bothering to wonder if he was hurting Sherlock. He couldn't get close enough. 

"John," Sherlock said softly, "can I stay here tonight?"

"Yes," John answered immediately. "God, yes . . . as long as you want you can stay with me. I've wanted to fall asleep with you since that first time," he admitted. 

"Thank you for looking after me tonight," Sherlock said, "I want to stay by you. I want to sleep by you and see you next to me when I wake up."

John nodded. "Come on, let's lay down," he said quietly, adjusting so they could both move into a better position. He pulled the covers up, lay his head on Sherlock's shoulder and wrapped his arm around his middle a bit tightly. He even brought his legs close to press against Sherlock's. 

"I'm so exhausted, John," Sherlock admitted. "This has all been . . . exhausting."

"Me too, Sherlock. I know," he nodded. "Let's just sleep, okay? Everything is okay now."

"Okay," Sherlock said, his eyes and voice heavy. He turned and kissed the top of John's head. "You mean so much to me, I don't quite understand it all, but you do, John."

John nodded again. "I think I do," he said. "It's okay now," he murmured again, starting to doze off. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and went to sleep with John in his arms.


End file.
